


Three Times in the Mirror

by vibishan



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Frank Castle is bad at emotions, Gen, Matt is not used to being the communicative one, Trust Kink, he's THAT BAD at emotions, is what this is really, it fucks him up a bit i think, it's pre-slash in my head but there's not even subtext really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 10:24:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6420004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vibishan/pseuds/vibishan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank is in trouble; who <i>else</i> is he going to call?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Times in the Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to the prompt 'Call me' for starryeyedalice on tumblr, but after a few days mulling I decided I liked it enough to post properly. 
> 
> I'm [spaceshipoftheseus](spaceshipoftheseus.tumblr.com) over there, feel free to come say hi!

Most criminals aren’t soldiers.

Most of them are businesspeople, lazy or shrewd, or just thugs who like hurting people. It doesn’t make them not dangerous - but the tenor of the fight is different. The way they plan for engagements is different, the way they react to surprises. This guy, watching him set up an arms deal through his scope, Frank thought he was the second kind, aping the first. He moved like a rambunctious kid in stuck church, motions a little too wide and wild for the lines of his very nice suit; he got too close to people it did not pay to agitate, and showed all his teeth when he laughed - often. He liked playing with his knives too much, too openly, for a man purchasing serious munitions. A high-caliber thug, sure, high energy, cocky because he had the skills to get away with it, but still just a rabid dog, a little bit off-kilter, itching to bite.

That was a miscalculation. A dog, yes, but a well-trained one, a proper hunting hound. He yips and snaps and plays - but when Frank moves in, he snaps to attention. He navigates the chaos, uses it as cover the same way Frank does. He doesn’t just start cutting his way through the presumed betrayal, delighted to slip his leash. He doesn’t split his attention, doesn’t try to go for the money or the merchandise and get out laughing. He prioritizes the threat.

Frank didn’t think he was the one to watch - not compared to the seller’s very professional brace of mercenaries - which is why he’s currently slowly bleeding out under his vest from a goddamn _medieval-style rondel dagger_ , once designed for punching through chain mail and slipping through the gaps in plate. He’s got some aramid mixed in with his kevlar for stab resistance, but it’s only calibrated to lighter modern knives, bowies and switchblades, wider on the cross section or much thinner in the tang or both.

A soldier picks the right weapon for the job.

***

“Red,” he says when his vision goes black for the - he’s not sure how many times it’s been. Just that it doesn’t blink clear after a few seconds this time. The dizziness he can handle; he just pretends it’s an aquatic mission, keeps his gravity low, rides out the current shifts, keeps moving. But it won’t be long until he passes out if this keeps up; he’s only got so much motion left. “Red, mayday.” He breathes as deeply as he can between words, doesn’t shout. Either he’s been going in the right direction or he hasn’t; Red’s in range or he’s not.

“Mayday,” Frank says, because explaining is too many words. His vision blurs back in, and he takes a few more breaths before he sits down, leans against the brick of the alley wall. “Mayday.”

(Three times, for a proper call. There are reasons for it, but he can’t remember them.)

“When you find me, need…vest off, gauze, compression. There’s blood at my place. Fridge. IV in a box on top.” It takes him a minute to remember the address of his latest squat. He tries “Daredevil, mayday,” repeats it until he can get his mind around the numbers. It helps keep him awake, just forcing out the shapes of the words. You’re supposed to say it the other way, mayday first and station addressed second, but he has to filter things, doesn’t he? Have to get his attention.

“Keys in my jacket. If I go silent, just follow the blood.”

He knows he’s fucked, because he can feel his mouth twitching. Those would make fitting last words.

( _Is this funny to you, marine?_  It’s not about what’s  _fitting._ It’s about the fight.)

“Matt. Matt Murdock. Matthew.”

(People hear their names. _Notice_  them, in a din, in a daze. Maybe it’s worth trying.)

“Matt, I’m bleeding out. Really hope you can hear this.”

(Pointless.)

“Jacket pocket. Fridge. S’already bagged, same shape as in a hospital, just heat it up. Stovetop, bag in a pot of water, slow. Microwave ruins…something. Proteins.”

Maybe he should write the address in blood. On the other hand, he doesn’t want some other schmuck to find everything he as stashed there. There’s some actual light artillery.

“Matt. Matt. Matt.”

(Say it three times. Like summoning Bloody Mary. Speak of the devil.)

He’s slurring but it’s an easy word. “Mayday, Matt.”

He doesn’t remember losing consciousness.

***

“I can’t believe you stole from a blood bank.”

Is the first thing Red says. Frank hasn’t opened his eyes yet, but apparently he can _tell._  Rude.

“Didn’t.”

He’s too tired to bother feeling insulted. Not to mention the crushing headache. He blinks his eyes and stares at the ceiling.

He’ll fight another day. Oh joy.

( _Is this funny to you, marine?_ )

“Please tell me you didn’t drain it from criminals like the creepiest serial killer. Lie if you have to. I’ll attribute any heart fluctuations to hypovolemic shock.”

“Not in shock anymore.” Just - weak. There _is_  a needle in his arm, in spite of all Red’s reservations. “It’s mine.”

“You didn’t just _buy_  it, human blood components are all Biosafety Level Two Risk Group substances, there are _regulations_ , background checks and training requirements and - is there an _underground blood marke_ t _?_ ”

“No. It’s _mine_. Drew it. Stored it.” So he has it when he needs it. Like now. “You should, too.”

“That’s. That can’t possibly be a good idea in the long term.”

Frank doesn’t say anything. The kid will figure out his mistake soon enough.

(Neither of them are in this for the long term. You fight until you can’t any more.)

He drifts.

***

“You kept saying my name,” Red says. Quietly. A little - tremulous, like he’s carrying something fragile in his hands.

Frank suspects he actually meant to say it while Frank was sleeping; he suspects the sound of it woke him up. He thinks about not replying at all.

(Clean up your own messes.)

“It worked,” he says. “Don’t make it more than it is, Red.”

“Right. Just - right.”

He’ll learn.

“You still need stitches,” Red says eventually, slowly. “I have a nurse friend -” But he doesn’t want her involved with Frank, or knowing they’re connected, or he’d be sewn up already.

“It’s fine,” Frank cuts him off. There’s a retired navy doctor who probably won’t turn Frank in. Save a man’s life a few times, it doesn’t matter what else you do. “Just give me a few more hours.”

“Yeah,” says Red, “Of course,” already oozing guilt for letting Frank walk out of here in a little while, for failing to insist. Frank closes his eyes again, and doesn’t thank him.


End file.
